


Paint Me

by CornflowerBlue (DayDaDahlias)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Luke Hemmings, Ashton is Beautiful, Awkward Luke, Bi Michael Clifford, Body Worship, Botany Major Ashton Irwin, Eventual Smut, Everyone is Gay for Ashton, F/M, Flirty Ashton, Flower Crowns, Humor, Innocent Luke Hemmings, It's like... imagine tattoo/flower shop au but academic, Listen I can't believe it either, Luke Wishes Death on His Art Teacher So Many Times Maybe I Should Tag Premeditated Murder, M/M, Model Ashton Irwin, Nude Modeling, Oblivious, Painter Luke Hemmings, Power Bottom Ashton Irwin, Top Luke Hemmings, it's pretentious tattoo/flower shop, silk robes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28722849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDaDahlias/pseuds/CornflowerBlue
Summary: “Holy shit, hold on a minute,” Calum says, “is that who we’re supposed to be drawing?”“I can’t draw him,” Michael gawks, “I’m not a Goddamn renaissance painter.”Or, the one where Luke is an art student practicing realism for a month and Ashton is the nude model in his portrait class.
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Crystal Leigh, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 66





	Paint Me

**Author's Note:**

> And now presenting, your monthly over-10k-words-College-AU-Lashton-One-Shot-Featuring-My-Signature-Unaware-Pining because I have super niche interests and like to force them onto others!
> 
> I also am aware that nude modeling is not quite this luxurious but please allow some suspension of disbelief for the sake of pining and smut, k? And I would apologize for bottom Ashton except for the fact that I'm not sorry.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> :)

Luke’s art teacher confronts him towards the end of the semester, after class that day is already over, and he is cleaning up his supplies so he can go relax for the weekend. Calum has promised him a paid-for trip to his favorite bar tonight that Luke is not about to pass it up. 

He has spent the entirety of the last week on his most recent painting, ‘Revelations’ (he’s been canceling on Calum every night because of it) and now that he’s finally finished, he seriously needs a break and a beer.

It’s well deserved and long overdue. 

“Luke, I think you’re a beautiful artist,” his professor’s voice is droning on over his shoulder and he is nodding along as if he’s listening.

Although it doesn’t really matter _what_ she’s been saying for the last five minutes; Luke is so far back in his own head that he’s barely acknowledging she’s speaking at all as he continues washing his paintbrushes off in the classroom sink, thinking about what sort of cocktail he’s going to get tonight. He’s been really craving a cosmopolitan. 

His fingers are stained a sort of Peruvian blue, one he spent seven minutes mixing earlier today, desperate to get it right. 

“I _am_ a beautiful artist,” he returns without looking behind him. He rubs the bristles of his brush to get the pigment out of them. 

“But you have to admit,” the older woman carries on and Luke represses the urge to roll his eyes, “your portraits aren’t exactly the most realistic these days.”

She sends a fleeting look over her shoulder to Luke’s latest work which is sitting wet and fresh on his easel, a hodgepodge of shades of differing blues and uneven shapes that smudge together and bleed into new tones. It’s gorgeous if he’s honest (it’s rare that he truly loves his pieces, but he _loves_ this one) and if he had any notoriety as an artist whatsoever, he bets people would pay hundreds of dollars for that piece.

It means something—to him, at least—so Dr. Goldstein seriously needs to stow it with all this ‘realistic’ bullshit. 

“Well, no… of course it’s not,” he says, sliding his latest cleaned brush in his bag, trying his best not to come off as rude, “that’s the whole point. You know how much I hate realism, ma’am.”

“I know you hate it.” His professor lets out a tired sigh. They’ve had the conversation too many times. “But, as I’ve said in the past, I worry you dabble too much in fairytales when it comes to your work as of late, and they are beautiful, truly; you have such a gift, but…” 

She trails off and Luke finally stops what he’s doing to turn the sink off and glance her way, his brow drawn in tight and frown evident. He doesn’t like how serious she’s sounding. 

She adjusts her glasses on the end of her nose. “You have to think about marketability after this class, Mr. Hemmings. If you keep skirting around the rules, and the boundaries—”

 _Even though there should be no boundary to art_ , Luke thinks bitterly. 

“You’re not going to succeed.” Which is something Luke has never been told ever in his life. 

He swallows and he doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know what _to_ say to that. He’s an artist. He’s a fucking talented artist is what he is and here is this old woman who hasn’t sold a piece of art in God knows how long, saying _he’s_ not going to make it? Well, screw her, Luke knows he’s going to make it. He doesn’t need her fucking— 

“All I’m asking for, Mr. Hemmings,” she breaks into his internal monologue, “is for you to try your hand at realism over the course of the next month. Make sure you’ve gotten the necessary preparation from my class and after that, you’re free to paint as many abstracts as you like.”

“Or?” Luke finds his mouth asking too sharply, standing like a block of stone at the sink with his paintbrush clutched in his Peruvian blue fingertips. 

She gives him this exhausted expression as if to say ‘I didn’t want it to come to this’ but if she didn’t want it to come to this, she never would have let it. 

She replies, “Or, Mr. Hemmings, I’ll have to fail you.”

Luke’s mouth falls open. “Oh—”

 _Yeah_ , he figures, _that should be motivation enough_.

***

“She’s gonna fucking _fail_ you?” Michael shouts.

He is sitting at the bar with Calum and Luke, two beers down and the third half empty in his hand, slinging around with every word that falls from his mouth. He turns his head in a circle like Dr. Goldstein may be on another of the barstools around them. 

“Alright, where is this bitch?” He flares his nostrils. “We need to have a serious discussion; she can’t threaten my best friend with shit like that. I’ll shove her realism right up her fucking—”

“Actually—” Calum breaks in from where he is sitting, mouth around the straw of his daiquiri— “She can. Luke’s been testing his limits all fucking semester. ‘Bout time the rules applied to him.”

“Well, she could have said something to him without threatening to _fail_ him,” Michael argues back. He chugs down a swig of his beer before slamming it on the bar and turning to Luke, who occupies the seat between Calum and him. 

Kinda funny, Luke thinks; an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, but he can’t seem to figure out which is which. 

“I mean, what’re you gonna do?” Michael asks him. His pupils are wide; Luke figures he’s the devil.

“Practice realism for a month, I guess,” he answers whilst swirling his cosmopolitan around absently. 

“You’re going to _conform_?” Michael gasps, affronted. 

Calum gives Luke an exasperated look over his glass as he mouths, ‘I hate him.’

“But that’s exactly what she wants you to do!” Michael rages, gesturing with his beer. “And you’re actually listening to her? What the fuck, man, I thought you were stronger than that. Where’s your rebellion? Your _fire_? What are you, Hemmings, a broken man?”

“Michael,” Calum grunts from the rim of his drink, eyebrows drawn in and voice gravelly, “it’s a fucking painting class, not the French Revolution.”

“Besides, it’s only for a month,” Luke mumbles and he takes a sip of his cosmopolitan. 

He can’t get over the way Michael is looking at him, jaw slack and eyes wide like he’s committed a federal offense by not wanting to fail his class. 

“It’s not a huge deal; I’ll live,” he insists, “In fact, it won’t even have to be a _full_ month. She said she’s having this—” He waves his hand as he tries to remember— “Fucking extra class during the weekends that I could attend; you’re supposed to pay for it but she said she’d let me in for free—”

“Teacher’s pet,” Calum coughs. 

“Soon to be dropout,” Luke bites back. “She says if I took that, she’d count it towards my final grade as well. So I could go take this class on the weekends and practice during my actual class period and boom, that’s it. Over and out and it’s back to me painting what I’m supposed to.”

Calum wonders, his straw between his teeth, “what class is it?” 

“Portrait class,” Luke returns. 

It’s a pretty good deal, he’s taken a few portrait classes before so it won’t be miserable. Just not what he really wants to do on his weekends. Also, realism bores the ever loving shit out of him.

“Like the kind where they bring in a model and you have to paint them for two hours because _wow_ —” He expresses emotion through pathetic jazz hands— “I can’t think of a better way to spend my free time than perfectly replicating every imperfection is some random ass person’s body and then having to be graded on how well I made them flawed.”

“Wait a second, it’s a _nude_ model?” Michael is apparently intrigued now, leaning forward on the bar so quickly so he almost knocks his drink over in the process, his widened pupils growing bigger.

“What happened to the need to rebel?” Luke looks on in amusement.

“Fuck rebellion!” Michael cheers, his grin lopsided and Luke has only now realized how fucked up Michael’s hair is and the fact that one side of his collar is flipped up. “You might get free public porn. Porn is worth conforming for. I’d conform for porn.”

“That is not what nude modeling is,” Calum replies in a laugh, drawing his eyebrows in. 

“Why not?” Michael asks, looking from Calum’s concerned expression to Luke’s amused grin. “Way I see it, you get to see a dick or vagina and boobs up close and personal _and_ you don’t get called out for staring; you are encouraged! That’s porn. That is public fucking _porn_.”

“It’s not porn,” Calum retorts. 

Michael raises his shoulders along with his eyebrows. “In what way is it _not_ porn?” 

“Because they aren’t going to perform any ‘acts of service’ number one,” Luke tells him through a chuckle, sipping politely at his drink. It’s the best one he’s had in months. “Number two, they’re usually not very hot.”

And that’s the truth. Nude models are nine times out of ten merely volunteers for art classes and if they _are_ getting paid, it’s not enough to warrant them wanting to be beautiful for the occasion. All a portrait class model does is lay on a shay lounge chair, or sit on a shay lounge chair, or hell, maybe _stand_ on the shay lounge chair and then they stay like that for two hours while twenty mentally ill pack animals memorize the curve of their nose and the pooch of their belly and copy it onto a canvas. 

Fuck, Luke hates realism.

In all the portrait classes he’s taken in the past, he has not been remarkably impressed with what he’s seen, so he’s not really looking forward to doing it again. His paintings are something of beauty. How is he supposed to make some random middle-aged want-to-be model beautiful if he’s painting them realistically?

“That’s disappointing.” Michael sinks back into his chair. “I like porn.”

Calum hacks out a bubbly snicker. “Yeah, we know you do, jackass. This isn’t porn.”

“It’s not any fun, trust me,” Luke says and he returns to his drink, sipping away at it and staring from Michael and Calum to the rest of the bar; all the people flirting with one another and arguing with one another and laughing sloppily with one another and he pulls an expression of distaste because he wouldn’t want to paint a single one of these regular-ass, pathetic bastards. 

“I don’t know, naked people sounds fun,” Michael mumbles. Then, all of a sudden, as if some incredible epiphany has hit him, he snaps his head up and points his finger at Luke, bouncing in his seat. “Wait, it’s a weekend class, I could come! Wait, wait a second, me _and_ Cal could come!”

“Please don’t come,” Luke begs, humor draining away at the thought of Calum and Michael watching him paint. 

“Cal, we should come to Luke’s class and get public porn!” Michael slurs.

Calum shakes his head with a snort and Luke looks at him frantically, hoping that his eyes say what his mouth doesn’t, _don’t you fucking dare, you dick_. 

A grin curls over Calum’s face when he sees that expression because he’s apparently taken it to mean _oh, please, I would love for you to intervene in my artistic process; all I was missing in my art is my two asshole best friends_ and he glances at Michael. “Yeah, I think that sounds like a lot of fun, Mike. We should.”

“Yes!” Michael shouts, holding his beer up to the sky. “Cheers to public porn!”

“It’s not _porn_!” Luke insists as Calum and Michael click their drinks together but it’s obvious that no one is listening to him anymore.

***

“Wait,” Michael starts, examining one of the tubes of paint resting on the base of his easel. “What if I want a lighter green than this?”

“Then you’ll have to mix it,” Luke returns, brushing his hands off on his shitty jeans. 

They’re the pair he always puts on when he’s going to paint something messy so they are tattered and wrecked with paint streaks, the remnants of cleaning a brush on his thighs. His shirt is much the same, his long sleeves bunched up to his elbows, paint having stained the cuffs. 

“Mix it?” Calum jumps in, peeking around Michael to see Luke, his eyes big. “I don’t know how to mix paint.”

“It’s literally just _mixing_ two things together. It’s not rocket science,” Luke says back and he can’t help but snort at the horrified expression Calum is sporting, brown eyes big, clutching a brush in his left fist how someone might clutch a dagger. Luke points, “Please don’t stab anyone with that, Cal; I don’t wanna go to jail this semester.”

Calum looks at the brush he is white-knuckling and lets out an embarrassed laugh, placing it carefully back on the easel. “Shit, sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“And that is exactly—” Luke replies, darting his eyes and his pointer finger between Calum and Michael in warning— “why you two shouldn’t be here.”

“Hey!” Michael says, raising his chin. “Anyone can paint.”

“It’s ‘anyone can _cook_ ’,” Calum replies, scrunching his nose up.

Michael glares at him. “Well, we’re not in a fucking _cooking_ class are we, Calum? We’re in a painting class. Maybe when we learn how to bake parfetts and crème brûlée together, we can start talking about cooking.”

“I’m talking about the movie with the rat,” Calum tries, “The rat, Ratatouille.” 

“The rat’s name isn’t Ratatouille.” Michael reers back, as if he’s shocked. “Do you think the rat’s name is Ratatouille?”

“What?” Calum asks, confused. “What the hell is the rat’s name?” 

Michael answers in exasperation, “It’s Reni.”

“No, it’s not,” Luke says, furrowing his brow. “It’s Re _m_ i.”

“Are you sure it’s not Ratatouille?” Calum asks, frowning at Michael. “Why else would they name the movie that if it’s not the rat’s name?”

“Because it’s the name of the food!” Michael all about shouts, throwing his hands up. “It’s a dish with different squashes and in that final sequence of the film—” 

Luke chooses to drown their arguing voices out, rolling his eyes as he turns back to his own canvas, running his eyes over the white surface. 

Oh, the things he could mar this expanse with. 

The different colors he could splash over it. The different meanings he could pull from his brain; the masterpieces he could bless this canvas with and _yet_ here he is, about to deface this beautiful prospective surface with some poor bastards droopy ass genitals. 

He’d rather pour swamp water over the fabric and let it mean the same thing. 

He’s running through all the better options for what he could bless over his canvas when he notices that Calum and Michael have stopped arguing (which means something noteworthy must have happened) and he looks up, the real world swirling back into his perspective.

His eyes land on the two of them standing stone still, their gazes directed to the other side of the room where the classroom door is and Luke frowns in confusion at the dumbass expressions they both have on, mouths partially agape. 

“Why do you two look so stupid?” Luke asks in a laugh and Michael doesn’t even look at him, just tips his head to the door. 

As a means of description, he mumbles, “oh my _God_.”

Luke turns the way they are both staring and it doesn’t take so much as a second to figure out what the two of them are drooling over. 

There is a man talking to Dr. Goldstein, and wow. Okay, yeah, wow, now Luke is staring too.

The first feature of note is the silk robe the man is wearing, decorated with large blooming flowers and intricate designs, different colors bleeding together, curling around the fabric and creating the collage of a garden Luke now desperately wants to wander through. 

The robe itself—while absolutely stunning—is made even more alluring by the fact that one side of it has slipped from the man’s shoulder, exposing a sharp collar bone and a soft smattering of freckles across a well-defined shoulder. 

Luke’s eyes travel over the man’s clavicle to his throat, which is wrapped in black and silver chain necklaces, disappearing into the v-neck of the robe which is open far more than should be publicly acceptable to show off the curls of blonde chest hair and frame the perfect impression of his jugular. 

His chin has a subtle cleft and it blends perfectly into his jawline, smooth and sharp. His posture is a little too correct if Luke is being critical, too confident and strong, and Luke flutters his eyelids in shock. 

Of course, though, the most noticeable of all this man’s features are his short honey-colored curls, his bright hazel eyes that are currently crinkled at the corners, and the dazzling white smile he has Dr. Goldstein trapped in. 

He is, in the simplest terms, fucking ethereal. 

“Holy shit, hold on a minute,” Calum says, his eyes tracking as the guy laughs at something Goldstein says, reaching to hold onto her forearm as a show of camaraderie and holy shit are his fingers _long_ , adorned with different ornate rings, “is that who we’re supposed to be drawing?” 

“I can’t draw him,” Michael gawks, “I’m not a Goddamn renaissance painter.”

Calum watches as the guy slips his hand from Goldstein’s arm to instead massage the side of his own neck and his exposed shoulder, fingers dancing over his delectably tan skin. 

Calum blurts, “I’m calling dibs on that.”

“What?” Luke laughs in alarm, dragging his eyes from the greek statue of a man at the front door to look at Calum. “You can’t call dibs on a human being!”

“I can and I have. Dibs.” Calum points across the room. “Dibs on that.”

“Okay, well ‘dibs’ doesn’t apply if he chooses me first,” Michael argues, staring at the guy with a surfacing hunger, shooting his gaze up and down the length of the silk robe, removing it with his eyes.

Luke cannot believe what he’s hearing. “Michael, you have a _girlfriend_.”

Michael snaps his eyes away, blinking at Luke in surprise. “Do I? Shit, I completely forgot.”

“Well, I don’t,” Calum pipes up. He hasn’t broken his gaze for a second. “And I’m calling dibs on the Renaissance man.”

Luke tries again, “You can’t call dibs on a—”

“Wait, holy shit—” Michael interrupts and Luke follows his line of sight to see that the man is beginning to trace his fingers over the tie of his robe, carefully unknotting the length of fabric that is keeping the remaining section of the clothing closed, revealing more of his bare chest. “Is he about to drop his robe? Oh my God. _No_.”

“He’s a nude model!” Luke laughs, although he feels his own mouth going a smidge dry as Renaissance continues to smile that dazzling grin, dimples etching themselves in his cheeks, while unlooping the tie and letting the other side of his robe fall off his shoulder which is just as perfectly crafted as the other (God must have had a hay-day making this bastard). “Of course he’s gonna be nude. It’s in the title.”

“I’m not ready,” Calum says, drawing his hands to his mouth. “I’m not prepared.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing special,” Luke mumbles, eyeing the man from the corner of his blue irises, and the way the robe starts to slip down his both arms at the same time to his elbows. “The rest of him is so nice, there’s no way that—”

The robe falls to the floor in a puddle of silk and Luke lets a strangled sound pull from his throat.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Calum breathes at the same time Michael hisses, “Holy fuck.” 

“Dibs,” Calum chants, tone edging on desperate, “ _Fucking dibs_. Dibs on that.”

Luke and Michael don’t even argue with him; they are too caught up in the movement of the man walking across the room. No naked man should walk with such poise; surely he should be afraid of someone judging him.

But then it occurs to Luke the way that he, Calum, and Michael are acting and he realizes this man must know by this point that he’s beautiful. 

He must, because he walks to the middle of the room, one hand rubbing at the base of his neck and tracing the line of a necklace while the other wraps around his stomach so his elbow can rest in his palm, without fear. 

He stops dead center, and surveys over the classroom of about fifteen people, all of whom have their eyes trained on him. 

A hush falls, his smile tugs further at his lips, and he lets out the smallest chuckle ( _fuck_ , Luke thinks) and nods to himself like everything about this is very funny to him. 

“Good morning!” he calls to the classroom and his voice is loud, easy, and _made_ to be listened to. 

The class choruses hushed, stunned replies and Luke catches Calum whispering, “I wish I had a ruler.”

“Sorry that I didn’t give you any explicit warning,” Renaissance carries on. His eyes flicker down to the soft dick that is resting between his legs before looking back up, making his eyes hooded and they are so Goddamn hazel that they glow. “I like to make an entrance.”

“I’m not complaining!” Michael pipes up loudly from the back and while Luke turns the color of blood in embarrassment, the rest of the class lets out agreeing laughter. 

Renaissance seems to appreciate it just as much, letting his eyes squint again as he grins brightly. 

“Thank you!” he replies. “Anyway, feel I should tell you all that; hi, my name is Ashton Irwin, I'm a twenty-two year old grad student, and I’d strongly appreciate it if you didn’t make me ugly in your portrait or make any of my body parts smaller in photos than they appear in real life.”

Fractured chuckles bubble from the audience as Ashton turns around and, wow, Luke can’t help but admire the curve of his spine and the muscles in his back. This guy is… He is well carved. 

“I’m so happy I paid twenty dollars to be in this class,” Michael says, eyes practically glued to Ashton’s ass. “So worth it.”

“Uh-huh,” Calum sounds like he’s half asleep, glazed eyes following every one of Ashton’s movements like he’s been trained to do so or like he’s expected to take a test on Ashton’s features in the next hour and is studying for his life. 

“Stop staring; you look like morons,” Luke hisses, but his eyes haven’t moved from the delicious bend of Ashton’s spine, even as the man sits down on the lounge chair, stretching out his body across it to lay comfortably. 

Luke would say in confidence, based on how Ashton presents himself, he’s been nude in front of a crowd a time or two. But, with a body like that, it’s no surprise. 

“Alright, class,” Dr. Goldstein’s voice says but none of the students are quite as interested in her as they are in Ashton and the way he has settled into the cushion of the chair, half a smile lingering on his full, pink lips. 

Luke is entranced by the way his dimples sink into his cheeks. 

Dr. Goldstein clears her throat. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

***

Two hours, all eyes stay trained on Ashton.

For two fucking _hours_ , he lays there on that lounge chair, stretched out, unmoving and content, his body on full display for viewers and he never once looks out of place or like he doesn’t want the eyes glued to him. 

Never once looks like he shouldn’t be the center of attention. 

Luke doesn’t even know this bastard and, yet, he can’t take his eyes off him. But then again, no one can. He wants to know everything about Renaissance Man Ashton Irwin. Especially, he wants to know how to make him laugh hard enough to make his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners and have his dimples create indentations in his cheeks.

There’s not a bad part on the man, all tan smooth skin and sinewy muscles, moving only every twenty minutes to fix his curls away from his eyes as they slowly fall every so often. 

Luke wishes he could get a closer look. He’d love to count the freckles on Ashton’s shoulders and his back. Maybe play connect-the-dots with his fingers. Or his tongue.

By the looks of it, Michael and Calum feel much the same. 

Calum has his eyes boring into Ashton’s abs as he clumsily dabs his paintbrush on his canvas (he’s still holding it like it’s a knife and he wants to slice the fabric right through).

Michael, meanwhile, is painting as though he has secretly unlocked the talent of Picasso (or seems to think he has), darting his brush across the white surface with a deep frown in his face, humming to himself the entire time. 

Luke wants to peak over and look at what he is creating but he figures he’ll wait until it’s finished to snoop.

His own painting is— Well, it’s— It’s just that....

He may or may not have abandoned the idea of realism. 

“Alright, everyone!” Dr. Goldstein says. “Let’s draw ourselves to an end point, and see what you’ve managed to create in the last two hours. Remember, there’s no bad art. Only unrefined.”

Luke growls to himself, sweeping his brush across the bottom of the canvas to write his signature, claiming the piece as his own. 

Dr. Goldstein begins to walk around the classroom, starting at the front row and working her way through the students, pointing to their piece and telling them every tiny thing they did poorly and could have done better. Seems all their art is too _unrefined_ for her. 

What a bitch. 

“God, that was hard as fuck,” Calum mumbles, stepping back from his portrait to stare at it. Michael peeks over at it and instantly muffles a cackle. Calum tries to cover, fumbling, “I don’t remember it being this ugly while I was painting it, I swear.”

“Ugly?” A voice repeats and all three of their heads snap to the side where, of fucking course, the Renaissance Man himself is standing, carefully fixing his robe back around himself. 

He’s even better up close. 

He smiles at them and asks, “Didn’t I specifically say not to make me ugly?”

Calum audibly swallows. “Uh—Well, see, it wasn’t so much that I didn’t listen, and more that I’m just a shit artist.” 

Ashton laughs and, oh okay, it’s this sweet little giggle that makes Luke bite the inside of his lip. He offers Calum, “It’s not that bad. You really captured my…”

He skims hazel eyes over the portrait and it is now that Luke cranes his neck to see it, the mass of horribly shaded browns to create an uneven blob of a stick figure (although he does have an impressive amount of detail in the eyes and the abs).

“ _Human_ -ness,” Ashton tries and Calum huffs a laugh. Ashton eyes him up and down briefly and wets his lips and says, “but hey, you can’t be this hot _and_ an immensely talented artist. The universe wouldn’t do that; it’d be unfair to everyone else.”

“You’re one to talk, looking like that,” Calum says, obviously flustered by the compliment, and Ashton’s grin curls across his lips. 

“Thanks,” he returns but doesn’t embark any further in the conversation and when he walks past the other man, Calum follows him with his eyes, turning in a circle, and the look he sports is nothing less than pure devastation as he mouths a dramatic, ‘come back.’

Luke can’t stifle his laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth. No one seems to notice him, but then again, no one ever does. 

Ashton stops at Michael’s portrait next and he tilts his head to the side, a curious expression passing over him. He says, “This is nice.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Michael returns and of course he’s standing confidently beside the picture like the cocky little bitch he is, one hand on his hip, the other braced against his easel, tilting his body to the side like he’s trying to say, _hi, I fuck men sometimes, just so you know. Fucking men is a thing that I do. Lots of fucking men. Lots of men fucked. Hey, you’re a man! Could fuck you._

“I like the—” Ashton waves a hand at it— “Abstract nature it has. And this—” He squints, leaning forward to peer at the picture, confused— “What is this? A third leg?”

“That’s your dick,” Michael replies without shame.

Calum and Luke both choke on their own tongues and Luke tries not to fall onto the ground in laughter, keeping his palm clamped tight over his mouth. 

“Wow,” Calum deadpans, “real subtle there, Mike.”

Michael shrugs. “He said not to make any parts smaller than they appear. I was trying to make it accurate to scale.”

Not so indistinctly, he directs his eyes to the crotch of Ashton’s silk robe before looking right back up into his eyes. It almost feels like a challenge and Ashton seems to enjoy the invitation.

Ashton asks, “you single, _Mike_?”

“The fact that I have to say ‘no’ feels like a genuine crime,” Michael returns and he really does sound like he’s in pain saying it.

“Shame,” Ashton replies and his voice has this nice, velvety tone to it as he runs his eyes down the length of Michael’s torso. “I like your painting.”

Without another word, he moves on from Michael and this time Michael’s eyes trail after him too, and he, in turn, mouths his own devastated, ‘fuck.’

Luke is using every ounce of self control he has not to die laughing at their stupid-ass expressions and he is so busy trying not to fall apart in the middle of his art class that he doesn’t even realize he is next on Ashton’s list until Ashton’s perfect figure is right beside him.

Instantly, Luke’s exuberance drains and he stands there, slack and staring, as Ashton regards his painting. 

It’s Luke’s signature modernism. Splashes of different colors, the green and gold in Ashton’s eyes and the red of the blood in his veins. They fix themselves—if you’re really paying attention—into a moon hovering over the horizon of a field, the silhouette of a man standing before it (really though, the _man_ is a streak of purple paint and nothing else to an untrained eye). Black paint leaks from the bottom of the canvas into the pictured sky, darkening the bright colors the top of the canvas is decorated with. 

Luke swallows nervously, his throat suddenly dry as he wrings his hands out in front of him, watching Ashton stare at an abstract painting that was supposed to be of him. 

Ashton glances at Luke and his smile isn’t there, replaced with a creased brow and an interested downward curve to his plush lips. The silk robe is beginning to drip off one of his shoulders again and he doesn’t move to rectify it from falling. 

He asks, and it’s this quiet, curious way, “what is it?”

“I—it’s, uh—” Luke can’t seem to wet his lips enough to speak and he can only just manage to croak it out. “It’s your soul.”

***

“Shut up!” Luke complains but Calum won’t have it, laughing so hard tears are running from his eyes as they walk across campus, Luke sulking with his arms folded and Michael chorusing the cackles every now and then with his own. “It’s not funny!”

“Except that it so fucking is,” Michael says because Calum can’t, too busy wheezing to form words. “You have the hottest piece of ass in the world standing next to you and you—you fucking say that you painted his fucking _soul_ —”

Calum practically screams in laughter as Michael breaks off in a hard gasp, holding onto his stomach with a hand as if he’s going to laugh so hard his organs will pop out. 

Luke scowls at them. “I _did_ paint his soul.”

“You painted a fucking orgy of colors and said it was his soul to make up for the fact that it was _nothing_ ,” Calum forces out through tears. “And then—and fucking then, Goldstein chews you the fuck out in front of the man and he just has to stand there as she yells at you—”

This time Calum has to break it off to wheeze again and Luke is trying not to melt into a puddle of shame in front of them. 

“And then—” Michael’s voice comes out shrill— “you had to _apologize_ for not painting him and his perfect dick correctly!”

They both fall into psychotic laughter again, holding onto each other for support so they don’t fall when their knees buckle, Calum bent over and apparently half close to death. 

“Alright, shut up!” Luke complains, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You two fucking suck.”

It takes them a moment to compose themselves, still continuing to let out small hiccups of laughter every few moments as they start their walk across campus again, Luke successfully humiliated and stewing in his rage. 

“It was not, by the way,” he snaps, “an _orgy_ of colors.”

It really had been Ashton’s soul. That’s what Luke had meant for it to be. It was what Luke had seen in the silk robe and the confident walk and the smiley hazel eyes. It was what his fingers had decided to paint. But God, now he wishes he hadn’t let his artistic vision guide him because he will never get over the humiliation of Dr. Goldstein yelling at him in the middle of a class while the rest of the students looked on and Ashton stood beside him in dead silence, having to _watch_ him get chewed out. 

And _then_ , because his life has a way of getting worse, Luke had had to shuffle his feet and avert his eyes from Ashton’s to mumble at the floor, “I’m sorry I didn’t draw you correctly.”

He will never be able to emotionally recover from Ashton awkwardly saying back, “it’s really fine; I like the painting.”

He hates that Ashton is apparently a sweet enough guy to lie to save feelings. Beautiful, and seemingly well-spoken, and on top of that, nice too. What an asshole. 

“Now I know why Goldstein made you take the class,” Michael says, wiping a remaining tear from the corner of his eye, “you really do need help.”

Luke growls at him, “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“You did, but I never listen to you,” Michael returns with a nasty smirk. 

Calum heaves out a sigh, rubbing at both of his eyes which are red and glossy with tears. “That’s the funniest Goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m so happy I dropped twenty dollars on that.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees and his grin grows wider, “And that _guy_!”

“Jesus Christ!” Calum is quick to agree, no longer trying to laugh but completely transfixed by the memory of Ashton that has undoubtedly infected his brain. “I can’t even believe it. Imagine fucking him. Holy shit.”

“Imagine _him_ fucking _you_ ,” Michael tries, letting out a longingful sigh, and Luke rolls his eyes back into his head. 

He says, “You two are gross.”

They promptly ignore him. 

“His _eyes_ ,” Calum gushes and Michael agrees by adding, “His _dick_.”

Luke could say ‘his _everything_ ’ but he figures it’s better left unsaid. Although, it is a point that could be made. God damn, Ashton’s everything. 

“God, I can’t even believe he’s real,” Michael mumbles, “He’s probably gotten work done or something; no one just looks like that.”

“Or he’s actually a God pretending to be mortal,” Calum suggests, raising his brows. 

Luke laughs at the two of them as they walk, fixing his backpack strap on his shoulder and he does so he can’t help but think of Ashton’s robe sleeve falling off. He wonders if he’ll be back next weekend to be drawn again. He’d like to try again. 

Dr. Goldstein had told him he’s banned from oil paint, even though that is his best fucking medium, and now he’s being banished to charcoal. But of course he has. Because he hates charcoal and Dr. Goldstein hates him. So it’s only fitting. 

How is he going to draw Ashton with charcoal? Where would he start? With those bright, flawlessly hooded hazel eyes, or, does he start from the bottom and work his way up toned golden skin?

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and reminds himself that Ashton Irwin is just some nude model in his art class and the only reason Luke’s lusting after him like he is because he’s never seen such an elegant nude model before. 

And, Jesus, was Ashton elegant. 

“Do you guys wanna get lunch before we head home?” Luke proposes, trying to distract his thoughts from Ashton and his smooth, freckled skin. 

“Yeah, sure,” Calum agrees and Michael nods. They continue to walk together through the grass until Michael breaks the silence. 

“Did you see his ass?”

Calum gasps, “Did I ever!”

Luke lets out a rough sigh as their voices begin to honk around him. Forgetting about Ashton Irwin’s body won’t be as easy as he’d hoped.

***

Luke is trying to figure out how to make charcoal not look like shit when Dr. Goldstein starts in on him and his fingers are pitch black at this point, his shirt is ruined with black fingerprints, and he is just so not in the mood.

“Mr. Hemmings—” Dr. Goldstein begins, flaring her nostrils and Luke doesn’t say ‘lemme stop you there’ but he does cut her off with a, “ _Ma’am_ ” and that’s about the same thing. 

She stops and stands there, glaring at him, as he tries, “I’m sorry about Sunday’s class. It wasn’t my intention to be rude.”

It was his intention to make a good piece of fucking art and he had suceeded so he doesn’t know why Goldstein is still throwing a bitch fit at him. 

“I appreciate the apology, Mr. Hemmings,” she starts, sounding in no way like she appreciates his apology, “but you have to understand you were completely crossing a line Sunday, and I expect you to make up for this through your work with charcoal, and rectifying your painting of Mr. Irwin this coming Sunday’s class.”

Luke perks up. “I’ll get to draw him again on Sunday?”

“You can count on it,” Goldstein says like it’s a threat. If it is, Luke doesn’t care, he’s too busy thinking about silk-robe-wearing, Renaissance Man Ashton Irwin laying naked in front of him again for an hour, waiting to be admired. 

“Yeah, uh—” Luke nods— “Sounds good. Can’t wait.”

“Alright.” Goldstein seems satisfied and nods her head to his charcoal portrait which is, at the moment, nothing but a large black cylinder. He plans on it being a vase. Realism sucks. “Carry on. It’s looking better.”

It’s looking shitty is what it’s looking like but Luke only smiles as she turns away and says, “thank you, Dr. Goldstein.”

While she’s not facing him, he flips her off.

***

“Okay,” KayKay says, leaning against the bar with her cocktail in hand, purple hair falling in front of her face. “So on a scale of one to ten, how hot was this guy?”

“Pretty damn,” Calum says back around his beer and KayKay rolls her eyes as she tucks the hair away clumsily. 

“I said one to ten, Cal.”

He blinks. “Oh, shit—”

It’s Friday night so of course they’re all out at the bar (not that Luke really wants to be in honesty, but he loves his friends so he’ll stay for a little bit).

Michael brought Crystal and Crystal brought her friends who are, by extension, their friends too. Considering how long Michael and Crystal have been dating, they’ve sort of had to become friends with Sierra and KayKay. Not that it’s a bad thing. KayKay is funny and Sierra is smart enough to help Luke with his Physics homework. 

“I’m serious,” Michael insists, trying to help Calum out, “he was a ten. He was a fucking ten all the way.”

Crystal gets a good laugh out of it, petting down his hair fondly, from where she is sitting on a barstool beside him. 

Luke appreciates that she’s alright with Michael talking about fucking guys. Most girls wouldn’t be, he knows that for damn sure. But Crystal seems to know that Michael would never so much as try to fuck someone else unless she was okay with it. Even if it’s a little unorthodox to Luke, the whole ‘open-relationship’ thing seems to be going exceedingly well for them. 

“Hey, if you can convince him to have a threesome, I’m down,” Crystal says in a laugh, combing Michael’s hair through with her fingernails. 

Michael kisses her on the cheek before trailing his lips to her ear and whispering something into her skin that makes her giggle quietly while touching his knee. 

“Get a room,” Calum barks at them and KayKay agrees in a grumble. 

Meanwhile, Sierra is passing Luke his next daiquiri and he mumbles a quiet thanks. She says, “they seem pretty obsessed with this model guy. Worth the hype?”

“You’re asking me?” Luke accepts the drink. 

Sierra smiles. Her brown eyes glimmer in the bar’s light. “Well, you’re the actual artist. Those two morons were just tagging along for the ride. They’re also—” she snorts— “I mean, c’mon, they’re Mike and Cal.”

And yeah, she’s got a point. They _are_ Mike and Cal.

Luke laughs, spinning his drink in one hand. “Yeah, uh, he was… He was nice to look at, for sure.”

Sierra raises her brows, giving him a very knowing look. “Oh… Do you—?”

“I don’t have a chance, if that’s what you’re asking,” Luke replies and he takes a long sip of his drink. “He told Cal and Mike he thought they were hot and asked if they were single and me… I was _me_ and you know how I am.”

Sierra snorts. “Yeah, I definitely know how you are.”

Luke puts a hand to his forehead, overcome with the memory of it and he feels his face heating up at just the thought. “I drew his fucking _soul_ , Thao.”

Sierra stares at him. “Sorry, you what?”

“I painted his soul,” Luke repeats, “Like, genuinely, instead of painting his perfect ass body, I painted his… soul? Or, like, what I thought his soul would look like. Don’t say I’m an idiot, I already know.”

“Okay,” she returns, “then I won’t say it.”

He groans, keeping his face buried in his palm as Sierra looks on at him. 

“Wow,” she says, “Luke, that’s a new level of… you.”

Luke lets out a hard laugh. “I’m such a fucking loser, aren’t I?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” Sierra shrugs. “Maybe he liked the… soul… portrait.”

Luke drinks. “Well, we’ll find out Sunday when I have to paint him again. Because I guess it wasn’t embarrassing enough the first time.”

Sierra laughs heartily and reaches out to give Luke a comforting pat on the back. “I tell you what, Lu, I don’t envy your life.”

No one does.

“So wait, what did you say his name was?” Sierra asks and it’s then that Luke realizes none of them have actually said his name because Michael and Calum can’t seem to remember it. They just keep referring to him as ‘Renaissance Man.’

“Oh, uh, Ashton,” he recalls for her. “Ashton Irwin.”

“Wait, what did you say?” KayKay’s voice breaks in and Luke turns to see her staring at him with wide eyes. “Did you say his name was Ashton Irwin?”

“Yeah?” He swivels around on his stool to fully face her and her dropped jaw. 

“Holy shit!” she exclaims him, excited “I know him! He was in my fucking, uh—” she snaps her fingers— “Goddamn it, what was it? Biochemistry class! Like a year ago! Holy fucking shit! He was fucking _delicious_ ; you guys go to see him naked?”

“I know!” Calum emphasizes. “It was incredible!” 

“God, I’m jealous!” KayKay says and Luke snickers as she leans forward, lowering her voice to hiss, “You gotta tell me. How big was it?”

Calum shakes his head, turning away dramatically as he takes a swig of his beer. “Kay, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

***

Luke has successfully ruined his pants with charcoal, big black smudges against the fabric, and he was such an idiot to try and wipe it off because now his palms are smeared too and when he tried to wipe his hands on his shirt, he got charcoal on his shirt so now Luke is one big block of charcoal and he feels like the biggest dunce to walk the earth.

Not to mention that Calum and Michael didn’t come to class today because they had only signed up for the one, so he’s on the battlefield alone, covered in charcoal, praying that when Ashton and his silk robe flow into the room, he will choose not to let his eyes land on Luke. 

But, true to his life’s fashion, he never gets what he wants and the moment the door swings open and Ashton is in the frame, his eyes sweep the room until they land on Luke. And then they stay. 

They stay, frozen, staring. 

Instantly, Luke shrinks, averting his own gaze to his blank canvas, rolling his charcoal between his fingers, hoping that if he doesn’t look at Ashton, Ashton will know he feels like a fucking moron after what happened last Sunday and will give Luke the honor of not trying to interact. 

“Hey.”

Luke hates his life. 

He looks up to find Ashton and his silk robe standing right beside him, smiling warmly with his arms wrapped around himself. He has gold rings on his fingers and Luke finds his eyes directed straight to them so that he doesn’t have to look Ashton in the eyes. 

He mumbles, “Hi, uh—”

“You’re the one that drew my soul,” Ashton points out, gesturing to Luke gently with his pointer finger and Luke lets out a breath, shuffling his feet. 

He forces, “ _yeah_ … Listen, I’m sorry about—”

Ashton cuts him off with a laugh, sweet and gentle, his lips pulling into a smile that highlights his dimples. “Hemmings, right?”

“Luke,” he offers and he hates that Ashton now knows his name. Someone like Ashton—someone this fucking exsqusite and crafted to be drawn—should not be stooping down to talk to him, a disaster of an art student decorated in Goddamn charcoal stains. 

“Luke,” Ashton repeats and it sounds great coming from his mouth. “It’s nice to meet you. Don’t apologize, by the way, for the painting. I thought it was fantastic. Does bring up the question though.”

Luke frowns, pulling his eyes from Ashton’s long ring adorned fingers to his face and the way his hazel eyes flash. “What question?”

“If you’re this cute _and_ an incredibly talented artist—” He grins— “What’s the catch?”

Luke stares at him for a second before it registers. That’s the same joke he used on Calum. Oh, okay. He’s the sort of guy that flirts for fun, that makes sense. Luke won’t take it to heart, even if it did make his stomach flip momentarily. Ashton’s only doing it for fun, because he knows Luke will realize it’s a joke, because it is a joke, because Luke is covered in charcoal and Ashton is wearing gold rings. 

It’s a joke. 

He lets out a quiet laugh. He’s not funny enough to come up with anything to say back. “No catch, uh—I just… like painting.”

Ashton lets out a hum in reply. “I see. Huh.”

He flattens his lips into a kinder smile before he starts to walk away, and Luke doesn’t miss the way his fingers glide over the tie of his robe and he knows exactly what’s about to happen. 

“Excited to see what you whip up today,” Ashton tells him, “You’ve already drawn my soul, maybe this time you could paint my ego?”

Luke wouldn’t mind painting that. If he wasn’t using fucking charcoal, he probably could. 

The robe falls off of Ashton’s shoulders as he reaches the front of the room and Luke trails the way it slips down his back and onto the floor. Wow. 

He lets out a breath, pressing the tip of his charcoal to the paper. 

_Be realistic,_ he reminds his brain as Ashton lounges across the chair again. His eyes trace the curve of Ashton’s hip to his knee. 

Luke mentally smacks himself. 

_Get it together, Hemmings, and draw the man. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Renaissance painter or not, just start. Put your pen to paper and—_

He drags the charcoal across the page with a pained expression on his face. The sound is screeching to his ears. 

When he looks up in order to memorize the line of Ashton’s waist so he can half-ass replicate it onto the page, he is surprised to find that hazel eyes are already fixed directly at him. 

Once Ashton realizes they are holding eye contact, his lips create this positively wicked grin and he lends Luke a quick wink and mouths the words, ‘hey, you alright’?’

Luke swallows down the lump in his throat and pretends he didn’t notice.

***

Luke is one hundred percent sure it hasn’t actually been two hours when Dr. Goldestein tells everyone to put their supplies down because all he’s managed to draw is Ashton’s neck and torso, so really it’s not even Ashton, it’s a bust of some greek statue made of charcoal.

Dr. Goldstein begins her trek around the classroom and Luke stands by his portrait, mortified, as he stares at the torso he has barely managed to replicate. It’s not bad, really. In fact it actually looks like Ashton’s body and that means it has to look beautiful. Which, to an extent, it does. 

“Ah—” speak of the devil— “it is my ego.”

Luke turns to the side to see Ashton easing his silk robe back on over his shoulder, although the front remains open and Luke takes careful concern not to direct his eyes down as Ashton finally draws the garment closed. 

Luke looks from the torso drawing to Ashton and admits, “No, I just didn’t have the time to finish.”

Ashton laughs and his eyes do that crinkly thing they do and his dimples dip into his cheeks in that way they do when he smiles the way that he does and Luke should not be this smitten with a man he’s only met twice. 

“I think it is finished,” Ashton remarks, regarding the portrait again. He puts his hands on his hips. “It’s damn good as is.”

Luke beams. “Thank you. I appreciate that. You’re pretty nice y’know.”

“Oh, thanks,” Ashton laughs, “but it’s all just a ruse to get into your pants. I’m secretly a complete douchebag.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Luke answers without thinking. “I knew there had to be something wrong with you.”

Sometimes his brain seems to work on autopilot and he knows (based on the frantic way his heart is beating and his stomach is churning) that he’s supposed to be afraid of Ashton Irwin and his nudity and his beauty but his brain says, _no, I don’t think I will be._

Ashton smiles at him. “So you’re not upset that I’m trying to get in your good graces to then get into your pants?”

Luke knows he’s joking so he says, “frankly, I’m flattered. But you’re gonna have to try harder than just complimenting my art if you want to get into my pants.”

“Really?” Ashton licks his bottom lip. “What would you suggest?”

Luke smiles at him. “What? You expect me to _tell_ you?”

“Oh.” Ashton’s dimples are so fucking deep and Luke wants to press his thumbs into them and hold Ashton by his jaw. To cradle his face in Luke’s hands and admire every freckle on his nose. “This is a game then?”

“Everything’s a game,” Luke answers. 

“Okay.” Ashton nods to himself like he’s deliberating. “I will be winning then, so you know.”

Luke doesn’t really know what Ashton plans to win in a game that’s just a joke, so he simply laughs and says, “I can’t wait to see you try.”

“Mr. Hemmings,” Dr. Goldstein’s voice interrupts and Ashton and him both turn to see her beside them, admiring Luke’s work. Luke freezes instantly, all the previous fun of interacting with Ashton dissipating as he realizes he’s about to get his ass handed to him on a silver platter. 

She looks at him and he looks at her and she looks at the drawing and he looks at the drawing and he feels Ashton’s eyes looking at him. 

“This is better,” she says. “Good work.”

Luke lets out a sharp breath as she walks away before grumbling, “what a bitch.”

He catches Ashton’s laugh behind him and he takes it as a silent victory because even if he’s going to fail his art class, he still made Renaissance Man Ashton Irwin laugh and that is just as good if not better.

At least he knows Michael and Calum will be jealous.

***

“I’m sorry—” Sierra raises her hand— “he told you he wanted to, and I’m quoting, ‘get into your pants’ and you’re still saying you don’t have a chance. Explain to me, again, how your brain works.”

Luke rolls his eyes with a snort. Sierra and he are getting coffee before their next class, as they sometimes do so they can gossip about how much Calum, Michael, KayKay, and Crystal are pissing them off. In the friendliest way, however; they’re never actually mad at their friends. It’s just fun to bitch about them.

“He was kidding,” Luke says back and Sierra lets out a sort of honk. 

“Kidding?” she squawks. “Why do you think he was kidding?”

“You would have understood if you were there,” Luke tells her, which is the truth. If she had seen the way Ashton was smiling at him how a wolf smiles at a deer, she would have known he was kidding too. 

“Please tell me you flirted back,” Sierra says, incredulous.

“I mean, I made a joke?” Luke suggests while frowning. Sierra gives him an exasperated look to insinuate that he should continue so he answers the wordless inquiry. “I said I’d like to see him try.”

Sierra stops walking and she stares at him, wide eyed. 

“What?” he asks.

“That was a joke?” Sierra blinks. “Telling him… you wanted to see him _try_ to get into your pants… was your version… of a joke. And there’s no way—in your itty bitty mind—that this was, in any way, _flirting_?”

Luke gives her a look. “No? Because we were joking?”

“God help us all,” Sierra mumbles, pressing her hand to her forehead. “You’re so—Mike and Cal are gonna have a hay-day with this one, I’ll tell you that much.”

“What do you mean?” Luke asks, genuinely at a loss.

Sierra raises her hands. “All I’m trying to say is, Lu; when Ashton Irwin has his hand up your shirt and his mouth on your cock, you better not say some dumb-ass shit like ‘ayo, knock knock.’”

Luke flushes pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

***

Michael and Calum have all but forgotten about Ashton Irwin by the next week which is devastating because how can they forget someone that looks like _that_ so easily? But on the other hand… It's fantastic because now, Luke doesn’t have any competition.

Not, of course, that he even remotely has a chance in the first place. 

Ashton seems like the sort of guy who flirts for fun, flirts with everyone, and Luke is a gangly 6’4” klutz who trips over himself like a newborn baby deer and is constantly dirty with art supplies. There is nothing about him that screams _hey, get into these pants! I know you want to!_

That’s why he knows Ashton is joking.

If only Sierra realized that. 

“Do you wanna do shots?” Luke catches Calum saying from behind him, directed to Michael. 

“Shots?” Michael yells back because whenever he gets drunk, his ears have a habit of not doing their job and suddenly he acts like an old man without a hearing aid. He continues loudly, “you wanna do shots?”

“I asked, ‘do you wanna do shots’!” Calum shouts back because when Michael acts like an old man, Calum has to match his energy. “Do you wanna do shots?”

“Do _you_ wanna do shots?” Michael calls.

“I asked do _you_ —”

Luke, as he so often does, tunes them out. 

He swivels around on his barstool to look out across the floor and all the other people (although, it is a Tuesday night and it’s a smaller crowd than usual) that are giggling together or offering each other drinks, or all the people that are drinking alone. 

Luke still doesn’t want to draw them. 

His eyes skim to a table and he can’t help but widen his eyes at the sight of, who fucking else but, Renassiance Man Ashton Irwin sitting across from him, cocking his head to the side while watching Luke, as if he had been waiting for Luke to notice him. 

And now all Luke can do is stare. No silk robe on him tonight. He’s wearing a black button down shirt that he honestly shouldn’t be because the buttons are popped all the way down to the base of his sternum, showing off his chest hair and collarbones, so there’s no real point to it at all. 

He realizes Luke has finally noticed him and he grins, bobbing his head in his direction. He mouths, ‘c’mere.’

Luke blinks. He glances to Michael and Calum who are still yelling back and forth at one another before he looks to Ashton again, who is still fixed on him. Luke mouths, ‘ _now_?’ 

Ashton laughs, his eyes squinting at the corners, and he returns, ‘yes, now.’

Luke sends one fleeting glimpse over his shoulder at Michael and Calum but he figures they won’t notice if he pops off for just a moment. He’s only going over to say hello. 

As he walks up, Ashton swivels on his stool, grinning. He says, extending a hand,“Why, if it isn’t Luke Hemmings!”

“If it isn’t Ashton Irwin,” Luke returns, leaning against the bar so he doesn’t look quite as stupid as he does standing up. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Probably because you’ve never been looking for me before,” Ashton says back and Luke lets out a scoff because he certainly wasn’t looking this time either. Ashton chuckles as he continues, gesturing to Luke with his head, “c’mon, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about me in the last three days.”

“Nope,” Luke lies. “Not once. You’ve got a real high opinion of yourself, huh, Irwin?”

Ashton laughs again and it’s truly a beautiful sound, all bubbly and hitching. “Of course I do.”

“But, c’mon, I’m justified.” Luke smiles. “You can’t say you’ve been thinking of _me_.”

Because Luke is the way that he is (unkempt curls, paint stains, stutters) and Ashton is the way he is (silk robes, dimples, hazel eyes) so if one of them is thinking about the other, Luke damn well knows Ashton isn’t thinking about him.

“Of course I have.”

Luke pauses. He draws his brows in. “Huh?”

“Of course I’ve been thinking about you,” Ashton responds. His arm is propped on the table and his head is propped in that hand and because of the way he’s positioned, his shirt has strained open more, and one of his nipples is entirely visible. 

Luke stares at him. He doesn’t have a response for that. 

Ashton chuckles. “Luke, d’you think I can _stop_ thinking about you?”

Luke’s mouth is dry. He scoffs out, “You’re so full of shit.”

Ashton lets out a surprised laugh, pulling back from the bar and his shirt folds further closed to hide his chest again and Luke can’t help but let out a small breath of relief because now he can try to focus. 

Ashton says (and he speaks so proudly, like he expects everyone to be listening), “Hey, I’m just trying to win the game!”

“What game?” Luke asks and he can’t help but smile along with Ashton.

“The one that ends with me on me knees for you,” Ashton returns and he says it so fucking casually, with absolutely no shame, his eyes trained directly on Luke’s. 

Luke lets out a choked sound and he knows he’s probably turned six shades of red by now. “Heh—Keep working on that one.”

“Oh, trust me, I will. This only ends one way and it’s with your pants around your ankles and me between your legs,” Ashton answers with a smile, and Luke laughs nervously, swaying back on his feet. 

Ashton is… really good at jokes.

***

Luke draws Ashton’s robe in class on Wednesday. It’s the only part of him Luke knows he can replicate without a model physically being there.

He remembers the way it curves and flows and runs over the ground behind Ashton when he walks. How it slides from his shoulder and down his smooth skin and he hopes he can replicate that in his art (he has elected to ignore the charcoal rule and is using oil paint), painting how the robe falls similar to the way water runs in a river. 

“This is good, Mr. Hemmings,” Dr. Goldstein says at the end of class, standing over his shoulder and examining the painting. “This is very good.”

“Thank you,” Luke replies, drawing his brush back from the canvas and rubbing the bristles between his index finger and thumb. “I like it too.”

He’d like the painting of the robe more if Ashton were in it, he thinks, but he doesn’t even want to begin trying to paint Ashton without Ashton in front of him. There’s simply no way Luke will be able to do him justice.

“I especially like the floral element it has,” Goldstein remarks, pointing lackadaisically to the flowers and vines that wrap the robes’ exterior. “You know, I might like you to pursue this subject further.”

Luke frowns in interest, continuing to feel his brush between his fingers. “In what way?”

“Perhaps go down to the campus greenhouses or garden?” she proposes. “Sketch some of the plants. Would be good practice with realism, wouldn’t it?”

“In my free time?” Luke asks.

“Whenever you see fit,” she replies, which means _yes, in your free time I want you to go draw me some flowers because you obviously don’t have anything better to do_ before she turns away to bitch at her other students. Luke watches her walk away, her heels leaving crisp clicks on the cement floor. 

There’s a horrible tiny, little piece of him that wishes she would slip.

***

Michael and Calum are playing catch in the commons with a baseball they found in a bush yesterday and Luke has his sketchbook tucked underneath his arm, trailing the ball go back and forth with his eyes.

“So—” He glances around them— “I’m gonna head to the garden.”

“To do what?” Calum calls as he throws the ball to Michael, who promptly fumbles and misses it. 

“To draw flowers,” Luke admits in a grumble, shifting from foot to foot. 

Michael lets out a laugh, stooping to snag the ball from the grass. “Gay.”

“Uh-huh. I am.” Luke rolls his eyes before he turns away. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Hey, we’re going out with the girls this weekend, you coming?” Calum asks as he walks away. 

He calls over his shoulder, “What else would I be doing?”

***

Luke has found himself the perfect rock to sit on in the campus garden, his notebook balanced in his lap and his pencil grinding away at the paper as he stares at the stalk of purple flower he is currently replicating on the page. He has no idea what it’s called which will be a problem for titling later but right now he’s just going to worry about getting the petal sizing right.

It’s not such a bad drawing so far. He’s almost proud of it, actually. Granted, he’s been here for thirty minutes and this is his first drawing and Dr. Goldstein had said draw flower _s_ as in plural. 

He needs to stop being such a Goddamn perfectionist about his work.

He draws the soft curve of the flower’s stem and sighs to himself, pulling back to admire it. 

_Yeah_ , he thinks, _it’s not so bad_.

He carefully closes his sketchbook and tucks it back beneath his arm and he starts away from the patch of flowers, looking out across the garden and the other plants that sprout all around him, curling up to the sky so they can get a taste of the sun on their leaves.

He starts to walk to the gate, which is covered in ivy, so he can try to draw that when he catches movement from the corner of his eye. He turns around to see one of the many paths leading through the garden and his jaw promptly slacks in shock. 

Kneeling between the flower bushels and the ferns on one of the thin rock paths leading through the foliage is Ashton Irwin. He’s not dressed quite as suggestively as Luke is used to seeing him, wearing a t-shirt and jeans and Luke can’t help but think to himself that it feels such a waste of that body to cover it up. 

Ashton is peering through the plants and Luke notes the stack of index cards he is holding in one hand. Ashton’s hair is on the messier side and he’s not wearing any jewelry. He looks soft to the touch and Luke knows he is staring across the expanse of the garden.

He swallows before he starts forward, calling out, “hey!”

Ashton jolts at the sound, turning around in time to peer up Luke with wide hazel eyes. He exclaims, “well, holy shit!”

Luke can’t think of much to do other than plaster on an awkward smile as he blinks down at Ashton (who hasn’t made a move to stand, crouched next to a gathering of ferns) because he didn’t think this far into the interaction. 

He finds himself saying, “are you stalking me or something?”

Ashton snorts, pocketing the index cards he was holding up, and shifting so that he can sit on the path and beam up at Luke, squinting against the sun. “You’re cute. Could ask you the same thing, though, seeing as you’re the one who approached me.”

“I’m not stalking you,” Luke replies, adjusting his notebook beneath his arm and to his knowledge, he really isn’t stalking Ashton, unless he’s drawn to him like a magnet and this is all his subconscious' doing. He wouldn’t put it past his subconscious. That bitch does stupid things sometimes. “I’m uh, sketching the flowers.”

“Huh.” Ashton nods in understanding, his lips tweaking up at the corners. He repeats, “cute.” 

In fear of the conversation falling short, Luke tries, “so, what’re you doing? Other than, y’know, stalking me.”

“I’m studying. For my plant identification test.” When Luke makes a confused face, Ashton elaborates, “I’m a botany major.”

“Really?” Luke raises his brows. He hesitates. “That’s—I mean—That sounds really, uh—” 

“You can say boring,” Ashton replies, resting his hands in his empty lap. His fingers trace the seam of his jeans on the inside of his thigh languidly. 

Luke laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, it sounds pretty fucking boring.”

“I’d say the same thing about art,” Ashton replies and he bobs his head to the notebook Luke is carrying under his arm. “But, you seem to enjoy that. So… to each their own or however the saying goes.”

Luke smiles down at him and he feels a twinge stupid, towering over Ashton like he is but it’s not like he chose to stand this way, Ashton could have totally stood up but he had chosen to stay seated and now Luke is about four feet taller than him and Ashton is craning his neck to look up. So—because he can’t think of much else to do—Luke lowers himself to sit.

“What’re you doing?” Ashton asks as he starts to get comfortable on the stone path. 

“I’m sitting down,” Luke replies, “so we can be on the same plane.”

“Huh, disappointing.” When Luke glances at him, Ashton fixes him with a smile. “I liked the view. How close am I, by the way?”

“How close are you to what?” Luke asks, finally settling into place. The stone is a little less than comfortable beneath his ass but he figures he can manage for the time being.

“Y’know.” Ashton bobs his head. “The game.”

The _game_ , right. And, as if it wasn’t enough for Luke to simply let out a surprised breath and a nod, Ashton decides to make his point even clearer by offering a definition. 

“The game that ends with me on my knees and your cock in my mouth, y’know that game.”

“Yes—” Luke tries to cut him off, looking around in fear that someone may have heard that joke and think it’s not a joke— “That game. I know the game.”

“So?” Ashton prompts, grinning, obviously pleased with the way Luke is beginning to blush in embarrassment and his ears beginning to burn. “Am I close?”

Luke isn’t sure—in joke terms—what is close and what is far so he answers, “You’re getting there.” 

Ashton doesn’t say anything back, merely turns around barely to touch one of the bundles of flowers sprouting at the path’s edge and he plucks one of them from the ground. He turns, holding the yellow blossom in his hand and Luke doesn’t have time to process the movement as Ashton reaches out, fixing the small yellow flower into Luke’s hair just over his ear. 

Luke stays perfectly still like a rock to the bottom of a stream as Ashton gently works the flower’s stem through golden curls, feeling the brush of Ashton’s long fingers against the shell of his ear. His eyelids flutter in his restraint to stay quiet. 

Ashton has leaned forward and only a foot or so of space divides them and he pauses, fingers hovering against Luke’s ear and his hair, Luke holding his breath tight in his chest, eyes transfixed on Ashton and when he speaks through a smirk, Luke swears he feels breath on his face. 

“How close now?”

Luke swallows. “Closer.”

Ashton grins smugly as he leans away, and he turns around again to snag another yellow flower from the ground and tucks it himself behind his own ear. Yellow matches his complexion and instantly, Luke thinks of the painting he could create, Ashton in a room of yellow flowers, framing his features and his sunshine glow. 

“I want to paint you,” he says aloud and Ashton tilts his head. 

“You already have,” he points out but Luke disagrees. 

“I painted your soul and your ego, I want to actually paint _you_.” Luke fiddles his fingers against one another to distract himself. “Do you justice.”

Ashton looks somewhat taken aback. He says, “I thought I was the one playing the game… but with lines like that, Hemmings, you’re looking at a Champion's title. I’ll drop my pants any day of the week for lines like that.”

Luke laughs, darting his eyes to his lap. “I’m not playing; I really want to paint you correctly this time.”

“I think this is an excuse to see me naked again,” Ashton replies, sniffing, and Luke smiles at him.

“Not the reason,” he returns, “but definitely a bonus.”

“I assume this Sunday then, for class,” Ashton says, and he reaches up absently to fix the flower in his hair. 

He is so inviting, all sunshine kissed curls and tan skin in a bulky t-shirt that makes him look smaller than Luke knows he is, and Luke has this sudden urge to crawl across the foot that divides them and to kiss Ashton, coax his mouth open, to taste his voice and his laugh, but then he thinks that’s dumb. That’s dumb, that’s dumb; it’s a game they’re playing. It’s a silly little game. 

“Yeah,” Luke says, “this Sunday. I’ll paint you right this time.”

Or, he’ll try anyhow. But he’s not sure if anyone can truly do Ashton’s dimples and hazel eyes due decency.

***

Ashton is on the shay lounge chair and his silk robe is hung over the arm and he, in turn, is leaned against it and all eyes are on him to make sure their paintings are true to form but Ashton’s eyes are directed through the crowd at Luke.

Luke keeps trying to convince himself Ashton isn’t actually looking at him, he’s just dissociated and when he stopped thinking, his eyes happened to be pointed somewhere in Luke’s direction. But, every time he looks up to memorize a new curve of Ashton’s shape, their eyes meet, and he realizes that—truly— _he_ is the one Ashton is looking at. 

He turns his eyes up about an hour into the class and, of course, hazel eyes are trained on him. Ashton, once realizing he has Luke’s attention, mouths, ‘any good?’

Luke glances between the portrait he has sketched out in crude pencil marks and then back up at Ashton, a renaissance painting in real life, a sculpture, surely, brought to life by the Gods or something of that nature, and Luke can’t help but stare and stare and stare, hoping his eyes tell Ashton that:

‘No, it’s not any good because there’s no world in which I can paint you and give a portrait even a fraction of the beauty you possess. You look like you’re made of smooth, artfully molded clay and freckles create chips in your surface and you had a flower in your hair yesterday, and I want to pluck your every petal and dig my fingertips into your gault and leave marks everywhere. I want you to be the canvas I stain and I want the paint to be every press of my tongue and my fingertips. I want to paint you. I crave to paint you.’

He shakes his head, feeling numb to a new extent, and mouths back, ‘it’s okay.’ 

He spends the next hour trying to make it decent but all he has accomplished at the end of two full hours of drawing is the baseline sketch and outline of a man lying on a shay lounger chair with a halo of flowers wrung around his head. The flowers have an ornate level of detail, as does the man’s eyes and his lips and the curve of his waist into his hips and yes, to an extent it looks like Ashton but it doesn’t look like _Ashton_. Renaissance style, sculpted from clay up Ashton. 

It hasn’t done justice and Luke feels like he wants to scream. 

“Utensils down,” Dr. Goldstein says and once again, Luke contemplates a world in which he locks her outside the artroom and never lets her come in again so he can paint what he wants how he wants it forever.

“God _dammit_ ,” he hisses, slamming his pencil down on the base of his easel, staring at his half baked portrait. 

“Oh,” Ashton’s voice is beside him. “I sense rage.”

“It’s not rage,” Luke answers but a small portion of it is, “It’s disappointment.”

“What are you disappointed with?” Ashton asks, tilting his head. His robe has been pulled around him, hiding away the flawless expanse of skin beneath. “It looks amazing.”

“It isn’t finished,” Luke returns, staring at the portrait, although he does appreciate the compliment. He appreciates anyone who compliments his art, even if the compliment is a lie. “I wanted to finish it.”

“You still can,” Ashton says and when Luke offers him a confused expression, Ashton looks up and over Luke, saying across the room, “Excuse me, Elaine?”

Luke turns to see where his voice is directed and is surprised when Dr. Goldstein is the one answering the call and heading their way. His brain repeats, _Elaine? They’re on a first name basis? What the hell?_

“Yes?” Dr. _Elaine_ Goldstein replies. 

“Mr. Hemmings here hasn’t finished his painting,” Ashton begins as she arrives and Luke stands between them like a child listening to their parents discuss formalities. “And I know I don’t have anything scheduled for the rest of the day so it wouldn’t be any hassle for me—could we use the art room for the next hour or so and finish his portrait? I’m dying to see how it turns out... Unless, of course, it’s any sort of intrusion for you.”

He flashes this charming, I’m-very-professional-and-use-words-like-intrusion-and-hassle-casually, smile at her. 

Dr. Goldstein pulls one of the few expressions she owns and says, “Well, I have a meeting in the next twenty minutes and—”

“I’ll lock up for you,” Ashton offers and it’s perhaps too hurried, like he’s eager to get her out. “It’s no trouble, really.”

Dr. Goldstein considers it. She looks between Luke and Ashton before she sighs and says with a shake of her head, rummaging for keys in her back pocket, “Only because it’s you, Ashton.”

Luke doesn’t miss the way Ashton’s professional smile turns snake-like as he accepts the keys into his palm. As she turns to walk away, Ashton says to Luke, “here. Now you get to finish.”

Luke thinks Ashton is taking this game a little too seriously. If he keeps this up, Luke will genuinely fall in love with him and that’ll just be embarrassing.

The class filters out of the room one by one, Dr. Goldstein with them (who sends Ashton a nod and a thumbs up which he returns from the lounge chair he has crawled back up in). And then it’s Luke standing in an empty audience of occupied easels, surrounded by paints and portraits, staring at the outline of a man with a crown of flowers on his head. 

He looks up to find the same man lying naked on a lounge chair. He swallows down the lump that has burrowed into his throat. 

“You can wear the robe if that’ll make you more comfortable,” Luke offers hesitantly. 

Ashton replies, “it won’t.”

Luke tries not to show the satisfaction in his features. Instead, he reaches for his paint brush. 

“So,” he starts as he dabs into a puddle of blue on his palette. “How do you know ‘Elaine’?”

“Family friend,” Ashton answers easily. He runs his palm over the base of his jaw, feeling over his chin. Luke is reminded of how long and thin his fingers are. “How am I?”

“With the game?” Luke wonders.

“Yes, with the game.” Ashton shifts on the lounge chair and Luke tries not to look anywhere but his face. “Got you time to finish your painting, that has to be extra points.”

“It is,” Luke amends. “Definitely.” 

He draws his brush evenly over the fabric of the canvas, listening to it bend and heave beneath the bristles. Music to his ears. God, there’s no high more brilliant than painting. He can feel Ashton’s hazel eyes on him. 

“I like how focused you are,” his voice carries over top of the easels and Luke briefly peeks over his canvas to see the way Ashton’s hazel eyes are scanning him over. “When you paint. You seem very… in your element.”

“I am.” Luke dabs more paint onto his brush and then lays it on the canvas. “Thanks for offering extra time. It means a lot.”

And it does. 

“Pleasure’s mine,” Ashton says, his voice flowing like sunshine through a polished window. “I mean, how many chances do I get to have a pretty boy paint my every detail.”

“Seeing as you're a nude model,” Luke replies, although he hasn’t missed the word ‘pretty’ in the previous statement, “it seems like you have a lot of chances.”

Ashton grins. “This is different.”

“How is this different?” Luke asks as he cleans his brush on the cuff of his sleeve. 

“Because I volunteer for a public class,” Ashton explains. “Not everyone is pretty, number one. And not everyone is talented, number two. And, number three, final and most important, not everyone is you.”

Luke can see from over his canvas the way that Ashton is leering at him, almost like he’s hungry for something, wetting his lips every so often and massaging the base of his jaw to his neck. 

Luke lets out a small hum, trying not to show off the way he is nervously shifting from foot to foot. “Yeah, but I’m like everyone so…”

“Except that you’re not.” Ashton’s hazel eyes are beautifully round and glinting. 

“You better not tell me that I’m ‘not like other girls’,” Luke teases, mixing paint on his palette to avoid looking at Ashton and those hazel irises. “That’ll lose you points.”

Ashton laughs sweetly. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m testing the limits. Anything in particular you want me to say?”

“No,” Luke answers. “Not really.”

Ashton narrows his eyes like he’s thinking. “Okay. So what is Luke Hemmings into?”

Luke doesn’t understand, swiping his brush against the canvas’s skin. “In terms of—”

“Sexually,” Ashton fills in and Luke can’t suppress the tiny noise of shock he makes, ducking behind the safety of his canvas. “I’m asking what you’re into sexually.”

Luke lets out a choked laugh, unsure what to do with this because he doesn’t know what part of the joke they’re at any more and it sort of feels like the joke is going longer than most jokes usually do. “Uhm, well I’m gay.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Ashton says in a snort. “I’m asking what about it.”

He doesn’t give Luke a chance to reply. 

“See, because me?” Ashton lets out a prideful little trill, looking up at the ceiling of the art room. His hand has landed on his clavicle, gently rubbing over his collarbone. “I like dick. Sucking it, riding it, you name it. And based on that pretty little tent you have in your jeans there, I’m saying you’ve got a damn fine one. And when I win this game we’re playing, I can’t wait to get on it.”

He glances back to Luke, his smirk fit for a fox in a hen’s nest, raising his eyebrows in question to see what Luke says in response.

Luke is speechless. He is actually speechless. But the ‘pretty little tent’ in his jeans seems to be speaking for him. He fumbles to force out, “uh. That was bold.”

“Of course it was.” Ashton is a smug little shit. “We’re alone in an art room, I’m naked, and you’re hard. You expect me not to be bold? See, Luke, the only question now is when and why you haven’t done it already.”

Luke flounders. “Done what?”

Ashton answers so simply, “Fucked me.”

Luke must look like some sort of halfwit, standing stiff behind an easel with a paintbrush clenched in one fist, his cheeks a remarkable shade of rose, a tent in his jeans apparently obvious halfway across the room, jaw half open. 

He fights for breath. “Uh—I—” 

“Well?” Ashton asks, bobbing his head forward and Luke is reminded of the fact that he is completely fucking naked on a shay lounge chair. “I’ve been a good boy, Luke. I’ve played games and commandeered classrooms. You can’t say I don’t deserve it.”

No, no Luke definitely didn't say that. Because Ashton definitely… he definitely _deserves_ —Fuck, Luke is having trouble clearing his head. His upstairs brain has completely shut off and his downstairs brain is doing all the thinking for him. 

_Speak, moron, speak! Tell him he deserves it! He deserves it!_

“No you…” Luke’s tongue is twice its size and filling his entire mouth. “You do… But uh… Me?”

“You?” Ashton choruses. 

“Yeah, you want… _me_ —” Luke touches himself in the chest— “to fuck you?”

Ashton blinks, long and slow, like he’s just heard the stupidest thing he’s ever heard in his whole life, and considering that Luke was the one that said it, that wouldn’t be too surprising. He says, “Come again?”

“I mean—” Luke struggles to speak in sentences— “You’re _you_.”

Ashton stares. He anunciantes, “Yes… I am me.”

“And _I’m_ …” Luke shakes his head. “Calum and Mike were obsessed with you. Are you sure you don’t want one of them to—”

“Who?” Ashton frowns. “Your two little friends from the first class?” When Luke nods, Ashton lets out a small snicker. “Luke, they’re fine, sure but… But you’re a much better prize.”

Luke swallows. “I am?”

Ashton slowly slips from the lounge chair to the ground and he stands straight, confidence oozing from every step out onto the tiles of the floor as he walks across the room, right towards Luke as he says, “Absolutely you are.”

“W—” Luke stumbles as Ashton draws closer— “What about me…?”

“You’re cute,” Ashton lists. “You’re an artist. You’re a romantic.” 

Ashton has drawn close enough now that he’s right in front of Luke, only inches away, and his hooded eyes are trapped on Luke’s anxious baby blues, his hot breath meeting Luke’s skin that he’s so close, Luke tasting every word that comes from his mouth. 

He says quietly between them, “Luke, sweetie, you’re everything worth ruining.”

Luke is standing rigid, so painfully aware of Ashton’s bare physique in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch, to paint over every edge and every bend, and Luke doesn’t even know what to do with himself because he feels like this isn’t a game anymore. 

“I thought you were joking,” he mumbles.

Ashton grabs him by the back of the neck and, before Luke can process what is happening, he’s being kissed and Ashton’s hand is cupping him from the outside of his pants and he lets out a surprised gasp into Ashton’s mouth, allowing Ashton to kiss him deeper and for Luke to taste the hint of fruit on his tongue like he’s eaten cherries.

Ashton’s large warm palm presses against Luke’s clothed erection and he whimpers into Ashton’s mouth. 

Ashton parts from him, keeping their lips close enough to barely touch, their noses against one another. 

“Does it feel like I’m joking?” he asks.

“N-no,” Luke falters, “No, you feel very serious right now.”

Ashton lets out a laugh against Luke’s mouth as he pulls away and Luke’s dick feels like it’s fucking throbbing in his pants and, like a proper moron, all he can think is _Mike and Cal are never gonna believe this._

Ashton says as he walks back to get his robe from the chair, leaving Luke hot and hard, “you live on campus, I assume, so your place is closer.”

He has the robe on and he gets all the way to the door before he turns around to find Luke standing in the exact same place he was, in the exact same dumbfounded state that he was previously in. 

“Well?” He asks incredulously. “Are you coming or not?”

Luke scrambles to follow, leaving his half finished portrait abandoned on the easel.

***

Luke drops the key twice trying to unlock his dorm door and both times Ashton laughs sweetly and assures him it’s okay, his hand resting on the small of Luke’s back and even though he says it’s okay, the wide reminder of his palm on Luke’s spine is definitely not.

He’s wearing a thin silk robe that hangs off one shoulder and Luke is wearing paint/charcoal stained pants and a fucking Led Zepplin t-shirt and he fucking knows that everyone who saw them walking together across campus was wondering what the _hell_ someone like Ashton was doing with someone like him. 

Why would Gods associate themselves with mortals?

But now they’re finally in his dorm (shared with Michael and Calum, who are currently out doing God knows what, thank fucking Christ), and no one is looking at them anymore. It’s only Ashton and Luke, by themselves, and Luke swears his skin is buzzing. 

“Uh—” He starts but doesn’t even get to finish. 

“Bedroom?” Ashton demands. “Where?”

Luke can’t even do anything other than point and Ashton smiles as his eyes find the door with a lime green index card stapled to it that says in crude writing ‘Dr. Fluke.’

“That’s cute,” he teases and Luke knows he is beet red. 

His voice is hoarse as he forces out, “it was Michael’s idea.”

Ashton doesn’t say anything, merely smiles softly at Luke as he reaches out to take his hand, linking their fingers together (Luke is sweating and he hopes Ashton doesn’t notice how clammy his palms are), dragging him in the direction. 

He soothes, “C’mon. Any time you want to stop, you just tell me, okay? Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not a virgin,” Luke argues because it sounds like Ashton is trying to treat him like a virgin. 

Ashton chuckles. “I didn’t say you were.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna tell you to stop,” Luke says under his breath, “so I wouldn’t worry.”

Ashton pushes Luke’s bedroom door open and this is one of the few times Luke has ever been proud to show someone his room. Thank God he cleaned yesterday, his small twin bed neatly made and the prints hung up on his walls give the room a healthy, lived in glow. 

If only he had chosen to take the purple lava lamp off his bedside table. It doesn’t give him that much credibility as a sexual partner. 

“Okay.” Ashton lets his hand go. “Edge of the bed; take your pants off.”

Luke feels like a horny teenager as he struggles out of his pants and socks and shoes, dumping them off next to the bed, before clambering on his sheets and sitting on the edge. He’s also never felt less attractive in his life as he realizes he is now naked from the waist down in front of… God, in front of _Ashton_.

He starts to apologize for the way he looks on instinct but doesn’t get the chance as Ashton says, “God, look at you, baby. Beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

Luke stares up at him from where he’s sitting on his bed in the dim glow his lava lamp provides and he can see the way the purple lights up Ashton’s sculpted features, makes him look even more empyrean than before. 

Ashton sinks down onto his knees in front of Luke, taking care to put his large hands on Luke’s knees to spread his legs apart. 

And, apparently ever the one to need a one liner, Ashton peers up at him through these blown up pupils in the purple’s heat, and breathes, “Told you this ended with my head between your legs.”

Luke doesn’t say anything back before Ashton has leaned forward, hands still on Luke’s knees and taken him into his mouth. 

Luke can’t stop himself from blurting, “Oh, _fuck_ —” as he feels his dick incased in slick warmth, Ashton’s velvety mouth taking him in and working him over, his large fingers inching up the insides of Luke’s soft thighs, digging into the supple flesh, dragging him closer, deeper.

Luke doesn’t know what to do with himself—he can barely comprehend it all—throwing his head back, jaw hung open, letting out a breathy sound of surprise every time Ashton works his mouth in a new way, stretches his jaw to take more of Luke down, his fingers pressing into new parts of Luke’s thighs. 

“Fuck. Oh fuck,” Luke whines, and he feels like a fool that he gets so worked up so easily, but Ashton knows what he’s doing and better yet, he knows exactly what it’s doing to Luke. 

Ashton slips off, looking up at Luke with these plump, damp lips. His smile is wide. “Feel good?”

Luke nods, his thighs twitching with the need for Ashton to return, needing the feeling back more than anything. His hands are clenched in fists on the sheets of his bed and Ashton seems to notice them, cocking a brow. His hands slide over Luke’s thighs and Luke trembles under his palms.

“You wanna touch?” Ashton asks and Luke can’t nod fast enough. Ashton lets out a small laugh. “I didn’t say you couldn’t, love. You touch wherever you want.”

Within a second, Luke has tangled his fingers into Ashton’s honey colored curls, pulling him up to kiss him, to taste himself on Ashton’s lips, and _holy shit_ he can’t believe this is happening to him.

Ashton grins against his lips as he pulls back gently, Luke’s fingers still intertwined with his hair. He says to Luke’s mouth, “beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

His hand traces all the way up Luke’s thigh to wrap around his cock, jerking it a few times in his lap, causing Luke to whimper, his eyes slipping shut. He bites down on his bottom lip to keep from making a sound he’ll regret as his dick moves in and out of Ashton’s fist. 

Ashton’s mouth is beside his ear. 

Both of Luke’s hands are buried in Ashton’s hair, holding onto the curls in frantic fistfuls, and one of Ashton’s large hands is on the inside of one of thighs, keeping his legs spread open, digging those magnificently long fingers into the crease of his pelvis, and the other is jerking him off to the perfect rhythm and Ashton looks simply jaw-dropping as he does it, hair fucked up and tousled from Luke’s desperate hands, still wearing his silk robe that has fallen from both shoulders and left his chest hair visible and the sharp blades of his shoulders. 

He’s divine. 

He whispers, hot against Luke’s skin, “Tell me what you’re thinking, Luke.”

Luke says without hesitation, “I think you deserve to be worshipped.”

Ashton stops sliding his hand up and down Luke’s dick to look at him, hazel eyes round, and a small smile curves his lips and creates those delicious dimples in his cheeks. He keeps his breath right beside Luke’s sensitive, burning skin.

“Then worship me.”

***

All Luke can think while scissoring him open is that Ashton’s insides are warm. Warm and velvety and Luke feels like he’s never wanted something so badly in his whole life like he wants to be inside Ashton; to be warm.

Ashton is sitting in his lap on the bed, knees on either side of Luke’s thighs, hands braced on his shoulders, slowly fucking himself down on Luke’s fingers, making the most insanity inducing sounds as he does, these breathy little pants with his eyes closed and all Luke wants to say is, _look at me. Look at me, please_.

Ashton’s robe has fallen down one shoulder more than the other and he never moves to fix it as he rises and eases himself down on Luke’s fingers. 

Luke is awed by him. The way he breathes, the way his curled hair has stuck to his forehead, the gorgeous way he sinks onto Luke. 

“I need you,” Luke says to him, breathless, “I’m desperate.”

Ashton smiles to himself, his eyes still closed. He says, shifting in Luke’s lap. “Keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll get me.”

Luke takes that as an incentive to move his fingers inside Ashton in a different way, to feel around him and he seeks out his prostate, making Ashton let out a definite moan, head falling forward onto Luke’s shoulder. 

Luke’s other hand holds onto Ashton’s arm, gripping onto him. 

“I need you,” he says again, edging on a plea, as he removes his fingers from inside him. “I need you, please.”

Ashton lets out a small sound of discomfort before he reaches between them to hold Luke’s dick, making Luke in turn groan, positioning it beneath him, and he says against Luke’s neck as he slowly sinks onto him, “you’ve got me.”

The feeling is mind numbing. Not that Luke was thinking straight before. But now he can’t think anything other than _Ashton_. _Ashton, warmth, heat, fuck_.

“God,” he curses against the back of Ashton’s neck where he still has his head dropped to Luke’s shoulder, his long fingers clenching Luke’s upper arms. Luke digs his nails into Ashton’s waist through the fabric of his robe. “Fuck.” 

“Uh-huh,” Ashton pants into Luke’s skin. “So good, Luke. Feels so good.”

Ashton shifts around in his lap, pulling closer to his chest as he raises his head to be more level with Luke’s ear so he can hear him loud and clear when he moans, rotating his hips against Luke’s. 

Luke grabs onto his waist and he doesn’t think too much when he does it, fucking up into Ashton while pulling him down into his lap and Ashton lets out another one of those perfect little whimpers, grabbing harder at Luke’s arms. 

Luke does it again, slowly pushing up into him while tugging him down to meet every thrust and Ashton lets himself be pulled and fucked as Luke pleases, head tilted back and mouth open, his eyes remaining shut as Luke bounces him in his lap.

Luke’s breathing is coming in heavier, faster, his chest heaving at the feeling of having Ashton's warm body around him, of being inside him, and all he can think is that it’s really _him_ that Ashton wanted. Not Calum. Not Michael. Not any of the tens of people that stare at him when he lays naked in a lounge chair. 

It’s Luke. 

Ashton tilts his head forward to be beside Luke’s ear again and Luke catches him say, half out of breath, “ _harder_. I know you can fuck me harder than that. Is this all you’ve got for me?”

And no, it’s certainly not, and Luke feels himself shiver at the words, clawing his fingers at Ashton’s side to pull him down onto his dick, fucking up into him rougher and Ashton lets out a gasp of surprise, steadying himself by holding tighter to Luke’s arms but there’s no point in it really because he asked for harder, and Luke’s going to go harder. 

Luke presses open mouthed kisses to the side of Ashton’s exposed neck, sucking dark hickies into the tanned skin and he can’t help but feel delighted at the thought of people seeing those marks, purple and blue on Ashton’s throat and knowing someone gave them to him. Of all the people that have to draw Ashton having to paint those bruises on their canvas too. 

He fucks Ashton hard, painting marks on his skin with his tongue and his teeth, leaving paint splotches on his waist with how tightly he’s holding onto him, fingers digging into the curve of his hips. 

“Close,” Ashton says into his ear, edging on a whine, “I’m close.”

“Okay,” Luke returns and he doesn’t stop.

He continues to thrust up into Ashton, even after Ashton begins to clench around him, gasping and panting, coming between them onto Luke’s t-shirt and his pristine silk robe, tarnishing the fabric with his cum, sitting spent and pretty in Luke’s lap while Luke fucks him. 

It takes a moment or two more before Luke comes too, shaking with the force of it, biting onto Ashton’s shoulder as he does, holding him down on his cock by his waist. Ashton whimpers in his ear as he does. 

Carefully, Luke slips out of him, exhausted, and Ashton is much the same, falling back onto Luke’s bed. Luke pulls his ruined shirt over his head, and dumps the used condom in his waste bin, his body continuing to tremble all over. 

He turns around to see Ashton sitting up on his bed, dropping the ruined robe on the floor in a pile of silk. He looks so fucking gorgeous, shoulder decorated in these darkening blossoms of color, like violet petals, and his rosy cheeks, chest heaving with every breath, hair plastered to his forehead. 

He looks up at Luke as he slowly returns, bending to press a kiss to Ashton’s lips, just to prove that he can. 

Ashton kisses him back. 

As they draw apart from one another, Ashton laughs, nodding his head to himself. 

“What?” Luke wonders. 

“Yeah…” Ashton smiles. “Definitely keeping you.”

***

“Luke!”

The knocking at the door is what wakes him up, squinting his eyes and groaning, trying to roll to the other side of the bed, only to realize there’s another person already there and he bolts upright, staring down at the sleeping figure of Ashton Irwin, naked in his bed, letting out tiny snores. 

Luke stares at him, in amazement of his beauty. His sharp jaw, his pouted pink lips, his honey curls. And especially the dark bruises left on his shoulder. 

Luke can’t help but smile to himself in pride. He did that. Him.

“Luke, c’mon, you bastard! It’s nine o’clock! You’re gonna be late for your fucking pottery class or whatever it is!” Michael’s voice hollers outside, fist banging on the door. 

Luke rubs the heel of his hand into one of his eyes, yawning. His body feels sore in the best possible way. 

“Alright, that’s it!” Michael yells. “I’m coming in!”

Luke jolts awake and he can only start to say, “wait, no—” before the door is swinging open and Michael is standing in the doorway, looking pissed as ever. 

Instantly, however, that expression slips off his face as he catches sight of Luke’s current situation, sitting bolt upright in his bed, shirtless and flushed, a naked man lying unconscious beside him painted in dark hickies that happens to be Renaissance Man Ashton Irwin and part of Luke wants to just be cocky about it, to say _yes, I really did that_ but his embarrassment at being caught comes first. 

“Uh, see, I—” he starts, stammering.

Michael interrupts him in a breath, his hand sliding from the door frame. “No fucking way. _No_ fucking way.” 

“What’s up, is Luke jerking off again?” Calum’s voice asks from the hall and then he too walks in, at first unaware, and Luke starts to say “no, don’t—” but it’s too late and Calum is standing beside Michael, eyes bugging open. 

“Wait, hold on—” Calum exclaims, looking from Michael to Luke to Ashton and back again— “Is that…?”

“That’s Ashton Irwin,” Michael mumbles at the same time Luke admits, “It’s Ashton Irwin.”

“You—” Calum blinks. “ _You_ fucked Ashton Irwin?”

“Yeah.” Luke rubs the back of his neck. “I fucked Ashton Irwin.”

Michael and Calum stare at him. 

“I hate you,” Calum whispers. “I hate you so much.”

It’s at that moment that Ashton lets out a small sound, shifting in the bed, and all eyes snap to him, the room going dead silent as Ashton begins to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. As he rises, the blanket falls down his torso and lands in his lap, revealing far too much, including (but not limited to) the bruises that Luke’s fingers left on his hips. 

Michael lets out a distraught sound. 

Ashton blearily blinks open his eyes to find Michael and Calum standing there, staring at him, and instantly, his lips pull into a wide smile that draws dimples in his cheeks. 

“Oh, hey guys,” he says brightly. “Nice to see you again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tune in this February for our next niche College one-shot: enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, fake-dating, Acting Major AU!
> 
> And please come say hi on [Tumblr](https://daydadahlias.tumblr.com/)!


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